


Deviant

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Bang Your Head (Metal Health) [25]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair Smut, Angst, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Confessions, Cullen - Freeform, Cullen Fluff, Cullen Rutherford Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a work trip to Denerim, Cullen visits Alistair on a whim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deviant

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place shortly after A Garden View.

It was easily the dumbest idea he’d had in recent memory. Cullen sat in a large gathering room of the Theirin’s mansion, alone with his thoughts, waiting. Those thoughts proved poor company as he rummaged his brain for answers to questions, to why and how and when. His phone had dialed Alistair’s secretary, his mouth had said the words, and his feet had carried him to the mansion, but he remembered none of it. Work had brought him back to Denerim, but not once leading up to the trip, not until earlier that afternoon did he think to spend any time with Alistair while in town.

He searched the room for the lost time, the lost memory of deciding to actually _talk_ to Alistair, and a different memory returned, coloring his cheeks a bright red. He knew the room, had spent time there before a few months ago. The chaise near the door remained but the bed had been replaced by a large couch and coffee table. A television hung from the wall and a matching loveseat and recliner completed the space. Cullen sat on the chaise by the door, eager to be close when Alistair arrived.

Nerves wracked his body, the pleasant memory fleeing and his knee bouncing as he continued to fret. What would Alistair say? What would he do? The conversation played out in his mind for the thousandth time, never going well, varying degrees of disaster resulting from the expression of his feelings.

But there was no denying the way he felt. Alistair brought out the best in him, just like Amallia, but in his own ways. His presence tugged at his heart, setting it aflutter with accidental touches and his dazzling smile, his _flirting_ – Maker, he hoped Alistair had been flirting with him. And then there was the absolute ease with which he could be himself with Alistair.

Ten years ago, Cullen buried his longing for him, treating it as no more than a ridiculous infatuation with a man he hardly knew. Since reuniting after many years apart, that infatuation proved far more than a simple crush. Oh, he knew how. And he knew why. Those were the easy questions, tangible, whole, measurable, like the volume of a cup or the distance from Redcliffe to Denerim.

They were the truth.

The question that he could not answer was why – _if_ and why – Alistair seemed to reciprocate those feelings.

It was a stupid question, if he was to be honest with himself. Amallia proved that fact. He had _plenty_ to offer. There was no other logical explanation for Alistair’s behavior over the last year, no justifiable reason for the innuendos and staring and closeness. While he was sarcastic to the bone, he wouldn’t joke about … _that_.

And yet, the question lingered, taunting him with endless pursuit.

The door burst open with a resounding crash and Alistair strode through, tall, broad shouldered, and bright golden eyes alight with curiosity. That curiosity transformed to happiness – downright giddyiness even – the instant he spotted Cullen rising from the chaise. But as quickly as his happiness had shown itself, it vanished, falling to worry and then slipping to fear.

Cullen averted his eyes, looking to his feet, unable to meet his friend’s penetrating stare. The door shut with a soft _click_ and Cullen startled at the sound.

“Cullen.”

That voice. The _sound_ it made, his name breathless on his lips, like an oath, a promise. To care for whatever it was that was ailing him. To be close, to find the answers to the questions that tumbled about in his head. That devotion swelled in his chest, setting his heart to racing but he dared not look up. No, he couldn’t, not like that, not with his bewildered face, terrified and exhilarated all at once. Alistair would think him mad or angry or …

_Deviant._

At the heart of it, Cullen knew he would be just fine if Alistair did not return his feelings. That he could handle. What he could not handle was learning he was some sort of deviant, some sort of pervert who took the wrong meaning from people’s gestures.

Worse than that was the possibility of Alistair’s disgust with him.

A pair of narrow, brown Oxfords appeared _between_ his own black. Navy suit pants gave way to a trim navy suit jacket over a white shirt and a lavender tie hugged his neck. Oh to be that tie, so close, wrapped around him …

“Talk to me.”

The bass of Alistair’s voice reigned in his attention and Cullen found the bright golden stare boring into him. Like the sun, it warmed him twice over, unable to think but for the heat that roared to life in his belly. The strong grasp of Alistair’s hand met his shoulder and the weakness he knew so well while in the other man’s presence struck home like a bolt of lightning. A shiver so strong ran through him, and Alistair must have felt it. When the strength of his other hand found his bicep, Cullen winced in frustration.

“Cullen, what’s—” the other man started once more, but Cullen interrupted him.

“Ali,” he stuttered, “I … how are you?”

Maker’s breath, what a stupid thing to say. But that was a common occurrence, Alistair tongue-tying him with his innocent touch, his brilliant smile, and his tender, caring voice.

“I’m well. To what do I owe this wonderful treat?” he replied as he took a step back and released him, coy smirk hooking a corner of his lips.

No, Cullen thought, _stay, closer, please!_ The ache to be near him spiked a panic in his stomach. He had to say it then lest he go another month, another week, a day, oh, Andraste, even one more second of the pent up frustration would eat him _alive_.

“I wanted to-uh … to talk,” he started, tongue thick and disobeying as he stumbled over his thoughts. “Are we …”

Alistair brightened further at his suspicious glare around the room. “We’re perfectly alone, if that’s what you’re asking. That _is_ what you’re asking, right? I mean, you could have your way with me and nobody would be any wiser.”

 _There_. Again. He suggested ridiculous things all the time but as of late, Cullen found them no where near as ridiculous as he once believed. No, they were _exciting_ , thrilling, and adorably awkward, so classically Alistair that his heart thrummed against his ribs at the thought.

“May I?”

He heard his voice but the thought to actually _speak_ had not crossed his mind. The words merely fell from his lips in a quiet rush of air and Alistair looked like a confused dog, head cocked to the side as if to consider Cullen from a new angle.

“What?”

He returned, stepping closer, _much_ closer, the scent and heat of his best friend washing over him in radiating waves. Their fingers brushed, an absent-minded touch that drew a short breath from Alistair. Cullen found his lips parted, eyes wider by a fraction, and …

Doubt.

There it was, plain as day behind his eyes that held the sun. _Doubt_.

Cullen backed away in the next heart beat, furious with the tricks his mind continued to play on him so many years later. Amallia had been wrong, there was no way, she saw something that had not been there at all. He turned away with a frustrated scoff, hands running through his hair to grasp something, anything to ground him in reality.

“Cullen,” Alistair began, incredulous, but remained where he was standing. “Did you … did you just flirt _back_ with me?”

Maker, _no_ , he understood. He knew. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he croaked as he snatched up his suit coat and made for the door.

As he grasped the handle, Alistair’s rough fingers covered the back of his hand, and Cullen froze. Eyes squeezing shut, he whimpered a small cry of frustration, unable to speak any refusal, no excuse for his terrible behavior found amidst the confusion clouding his mind.

And then an arm encircled his waist, drawing him back from the door. Fingers numb with dread slipped from the handle and into Alistair’s gentle hand as he drew him into his arms. Cullen grasped for his life, his sanity, hoping against all hope that Alistair was not upset.

“Cullen, look at me,” Alistair hummed. “Look up, my dear, I want to see what’s got you so upset. Trust me.”

He did. Without any shred of doubt, Cullen trusted Alistair, but what he did not trust was his own heart. And that terrified him. He would know what was in his heart and Alistair would learn as well.

With a hand at the small of Alistair’s back and the other still grasped in his, Cullen raised his head.

“Oh,” Alistair began, a soft whisper of shock. “Oh, dear. You’re very ill. Feverish, sweaty palms, shaking hands, weak knees, fumbling tongue! Do you _know_ what this _is_?!”

It took Cullen a second to catch on, but he did. Of course Alistair would take any opportunity to poke fun at him. Cautious, he considered the man, so close, their noses scant inches apart.

“No, I don’t,” Cullen muttered.

His nose brushed past Cullen’s, the space narrowing to nothing as the other man leaned in close. And then Alistair spoke, lips brushing his and breath scalding his skin.

“Love.”

Thought ceased to exist. Nothing else in the world remained except for Alistair’s lips meeting his with a soft touch, gentler than he would have ever expected. The world ceased to spin, time stopping in that infinitesimal space between seconds, lingering as their lips connected. His eyes fluttered shut and his hand fell from Alistair’s palm to wrap behind his back, pulling him closer.

_Oh, Andraste, but his lips will be my undoing._

Cullen reeled, stepping backwards until the door met his back and his head thumped against the heavy wood. Alistair’s freed hand found his cheek, cupping his jaw and fingertips in his hair. Without warning, time shot forward in a rush to catch up, their grasping hands and frantic kissing incessant, hurried, greedy.

Alistair’s lips continued to press, kissing harder with a need Cullen could taste. He pried his lips apart – not that he had to try very hard – and Cullen succumbed to him, his demanding lips, the smooth swipes of his tongue, and the delicate little sounds of his sighs.

Fear fled and terror vanished. Not a single question remained unanswered. In Alistair’s embrace, in his _love_ , he knew relief. He regretted ever doubting the other man and his feelings, pulling him closer lest he lose him before he ever got a chance to really _be_ with him.

Moaning and gasping, their repeated songs of praise, of _Maker’s breath_ , and _Sweet Andraste_ and _Oh, Maker preserve me_ filled the room. Hands roamed with frenetic haste, a need borne out of time wasted driving them to rush. Feel, smell, taste all of each other, make up for lost time, consume, feast, ravage each other, Alistair’s fingers in his hair and Cullen’s hands beneath his shirt, rucked up to his chest where a thumb brushed a taut nipple.

Blood drained from his head, fueling _other_ body parts, and Cullen gasped his own moan of pleasure at the sudden dizzying rush. He felt the same in Alistair, pressed so _hard_ against him, long and thick against his hips. When Alistair released him after several minutes beneath the surface, he remained close, their foreheads touching.

A moment passed as they caught their breath. “I think I may have fallen in love with you, Ali,” Cullen breathed.

The sigh of longing that dragged from Alistair’s chest mirrored his own. “And I you, Cullen.”

The golden sunlight of Alistair’s gaze burned molten with a heat he’d never seen before. And though the sight was all too pleasing, some trickle of reasoning wended its way into his mind and Cullen pulled back on the reins of his lust.

“Ali,” he began, “Nothing would please me more than to have my way with you, alone as we are in this room.”

“Buuuuut?” Alistair asked with a coy smirk.

“Amallia and I learned a valuable lesson by taking things slow once we finally got together,” he clarified. “Can we just get some coffee? Dinner?”

“Oh, how _sweet_ ,” Alistair chimed. “Look at you and your romantic gestures, already sweeping me off my feet. How can I resist you and your charm, and your sexy scar, and your waves of blonde hair, and your perfect ass?”

Cullen squawked an awkward protest as Alistair grasped his backside and squeezed, the stinging pain flashing to pleasure in an instant. It was all he could do to contain himself, but a soft twitch at his groin gave him away.

“And _that_ ,” Alistair said, voice low and thick with lust, “will only serve to get us in trouble. I think it’s best to do as you suggest,” he finished as he backed away. “You still in town tonight?”

Cullen nodded, adjusting himself and his clothing. “I am. Couple days yet. Flying back on Thursday.”

Alistair beamed with excitement, tucking his shirt in and righting his jacket. “Wonderful, I’ll have your bags picked up and you can stay here with me. Just like college,” he added with a devious grin.

“Except with much less sexual tension, I hope,” Cullen jested.

Alistair laughed a wicked cackle as he reached for the door and replied, “Oh, no, I’m afraid there will be _plenty more_ of that.”


End file.
